


Elevator Silence

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The buildings are too tall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elevator Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Written August 2008 for storydivagirl's week of drabble-a-thons day 1: first kisses. Prompt: _Dan/Casey: trapped in an elevator_.

The buildings here are very tall. Ridiculously tall. Really, far, far taller than can conceivably be truly necessary.

He comes from a small town (you wouldn't know its name, don't ask him); he's not used to anything much over eight storeys. When he stepped out of his hotel that first day in the city, he felt stifled, crushed by the lack of sky. Indoors, he takes care to stand well away from any windows - 'shatterproof glass', he is reasonably sure, is an oxymoron - and, in elevators, he keeps his eyes on the ground, breathes shallowly, slowly, and pretends to himself he's anywhere else but here.

The sickening crunch of gears, and the sudden, juddering stop are one of his worst nightmares come to life.

A voice, far too close to him - how could it be anything else but close in this tiny, confined metal hell? - says, "Shit." As well as far too close, it's also far too cheerful. And most unwelcome. If he's going to fall apart - and he knows he's going to fall apart, can feel the claws of panic gripping at his lungs, squeezing the air from them, can feel his heart pounding, his hands shaking, his head spinning, the world tipping upside-down and sending him sprawling into the dark - can he not, at least, have a little privacy to do it in?

He takes another ragged, shuddering breath, and lowers himself to the ground, long legs jackknifed up ungracefully around his ears. "What you said," he murmurs, hoping that his voice, at least, won't tremble its betrayal.

It was never much of a hope, and it doesn't live up to its promise. He hunches into himself, a protective, near-foetal pose, and, eyes closed, tries to think of nothing.

There's warmth beside him. He cracks open one eye, and sees that the owner of the cheerful voice has hunkered comfortably down by his side. "It's okay, you know," the voice informs him. It's still horribly chirpy, but, to give it its due, does seem to be trying to tone it into concern. "Elevators almost never crash, really."

He opens the other eye and glares. "_Almost?!"_ If that was supposed to be comforting, it fell short of the mark.

There's a shrug: involuntarily, he notes broad shoulders under a faded sweatshirt, blue denim straining across strong thighs, the effortless rise and fall of muscles. It's a distraction; he uses it as a focus. "I read a book," the other man - kid, really; student, surely, probably a summer intern, or somebody's blue-eyed boy dropping by the old man's office to scrounge a few bucks' extra allowance - says. "They have these safeguards ..." His voice tails off.

"Such as?"

Another shrug. "Don't remember. But they're good. Trust me."

He almost laughs. _Trust you? I just met you!_ Yet, strangely enough ... he sort of does.

He feels an arm slide around his shoulder; after a moment's surprise he feels himself, involuntarily, almost unconsciously, relaxing into the welcoming, comforting, warmth. He allows himself that comfort. They're strangers, after all, thrown together by chance. This is a big building, just one of many big buildings (buildings of many, many floors) in the big, big city; the chances of them ever meeting again are pretty much astronomically stacked against.

"And it could be worse," the voice goes on. Its determined cheer is less aggravating now. He could get used to it. You know - if things were different.

He plays along. Anything to take his mind off the situation. "Worse, how?"

He can't see the kid's face, but he hears the grimace in his voice. "_Elevator music_. Aren't you glad we don't have it?"

He laughs, then, and looks up into eyes that are brown, not blue at all, and warm with concern that's surely too real to be wasted on a stranger, a tilted, sidelong smile. Impulsively, he reaches up, lets his fingers tangle in dark and too-long hair; sees the smile in the eyes replaced with something else, something else entirely.

When the boy's lips touch his own, he doesn't hold back. Like he said before: they're strangers. Perfect strangers. No names, no strings, no ties, no consequences.

"Still scared?" It's said teasingly, but gently, with understanding, not unkind.

_Terrified,_ he thinks, but does not say. The hollow in his stomach owes nothing any more to vertigo. He doesn't do this. He swore to himself he would never do this again.

So much for integrity; so much for his marriage vows.

Somehow, here in this time and this place, he can't find it in his conscience or his heart to care.

Abruptly, they're jolted apart; the elevator's moving again. Both of them stand, smile shyly, awkwardly; they neither of them can find words. Finally, "Thanks," he mutters, and the kid brushes it away.

"Any time," he says lightly, just as the doors open. They both step forward at the same moment; stop, and exchange wary glances.

"Your floor?" he asks, knowing the answer; receives a rueful smile, and a nod in reply, then,

"Yours?"

He nods in return, tilts his head toward his office. "I work down there. You - ?"

" - are late for my 8.30 meeting with Rosalie - "

" - our receptionist ..."

Their eyes meet again; cautious, uncertain. Then the kid starts laughing, and it's okay, everything's going to be okay. This - it was nothing, it was just a thing that happened. No-one else need ever know.

"I won't tell if you won't," the boy says, echoing his thoughts, and he puts out his hand in formal greeting. "I'm Dan Rydell."

"Casey McCall." They shake on it, sealing an unspoken pact; but the memory of Danny's touch lingers on Casey's skin for long, long after Rosalie has swept him away to parts unknown.

They never do speak of it. Not for a very long time. But when next they kiss, it's familiar and dear, like the first time all over again.

***


End file.
